C’EST MOI:

I'm an atheist, anarchist writer. Angels, demons, gods and aliens are interchangeable here. I'm self-governed only by freedom of speech, as defined by Amnesty as a human right. I write fiction and non-fiction, under my own name and as a freelance copywriter and ghostwriter. I'm also an alcoholic with chronic depression.
I'm a regular contributor of short fiction to a webzine and I've had over 50 stories published online and in print. I've published two novels, two anthologies and an award-winning children's book. I'm working on other books and I continue to write short stories for a third collection.
The rest is contained within this blog, where I wear my heart on my left hand and tell it as it is, or how I see things.

Filing cabinet:

Previously:

Repetitive Strain Syndrome:

Voisonous

02.10.14 (Day 284)

The same but different. Separated at birth or born of different parents? I wonder sometimes.

There’s a difference between poisonous and venomous. Poison is inhaled, ingested or absorbed through the skin (something I do a lot of); venom is injected (I have a lot of it). Those below a certain Intelligence Quotient don’t get this, in much the same way that they can’t understand a lot of what I write, nor understand some of the words that I make up. Like Biobollical. When I used that word in this blog, it referred not to my biological family per se but to those who I left behind; those who abandoned me. For “biobollical”, see “biological”, as that’s what those who can’t read apparently see. Read it. Read it again. Read it thrice if you have to (“Thrice” means three times). Now think before speaking again. I recognise that it’s difficult for some to differentiate between fact and fiction; words and stories but read more. Read between the lines and maybe spot parallels.

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From a parallel universe, a sci-fi tale:

Sleep eluded me last night as a result of various inconsequential and trivial worries, as well as real ones which actually concern me.

I’m clearly not a product of the mother ship. I’m the rogue boat, set adrift and searching, like we do in Ghost Bird for planet Somnia; that elusive world and one which we call home. Ghost Bird wasn’t launched from a mother ship. It was too big to fit through the exit hatch – the cunt, we call it out here – so Ghost Bird had to be extracted via the mother ship’s hull. The captain of Ghost Bird (that’s me) came into this world in a similar way: the head was too big for the cunt, so he was born by Cesarean section.

Last night Ghost Bird received an incoming communication from an unidentified alien species now occupying the mother ship. Clearly this was a species of lower intelligence as Ghost Bird’s on-board computer had to translate the message and the best that it could come up with still didn’t really make sense. It certainly didn’t come from a species the captain of the ship recognises: “I’ve read the Captain’s log…” (well done) “…and if that’s what you think of your biological family, you can fuck off.” If that had been from my mum in the other universe, I think you’ll find I did when you ejected me.

Clearly we were at war and Ghost Bird went into battle with the enemy ship from which this message emanated; a ship called The Poison Dwarf. Ghost Bird is bigger and better than the dwarf ship and has spent more time floating around in space. Ghost Bird has superior weaponry as it fires venom (an attack mechanism). The dwarf ship didn’t think things through when installing weaponry and instead of venom, it ended up with poison. Poison is a defense mechanism. So when Poison Dwarf went against Ghost Bird, the outcome was predictable and inevitable. The dwarf ship was shot down in flames of venom and communication was cut.

My communication device is approaching overload, so I need to sort out the needy. There are Clingons on the starboard bow, so the captain of the shit needs to get rid of them.

Do you know how to tell which way a ship is sailing, or flying? The right (starboard) light is green. Red (port) is what is left (or wrong). Ghost Bird also has blue lights on the stern and a white light on its bow, so we can see in all directions. Maybe one day we’ll find home. Those in Somnia have a message which we’ve transmitted. As we try to find the home planet, they continue to send that message to Earth. And therein lies the paradox, as illustrated by The Drake* Equation: by the time they get the message, we’ll be gone.

Some will understand what Drake proposed; that contact is virtually impossible:

*Frank Drake: born 28th May (two days before my birth date) 1930 (40 years before me) in Chicago (a city I love) and a man after the captain’s heart.

This is Captain Frank, signing off to search, fight and attempt world contact once more.

To be continued…

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Back on Earth,

Cooking again. Reading the weekend newspapers (Guardian and Observer) and playing online poker. I’m back in that game, both online (for real money, against real players) and live, home games (for play money) against a not surprisingly good player: my sister, The Courts. That girl is a natural. We spent the best part of the month we lived together in the squat playing poker and it didn’t take her long to learn, not just the basic game (rules and hand rankings) but also positional play, bet sizing, dealer raises, pot stealing, bluffing, double-, triple- and quadruple-bluffing, opening ranges and so on. She also has intuition and a very good memory: valuable assets at the poker table. Hours to learn; a life time to master: poker and The Courts. I taught my little sister well.

My little sister: the fourth love of my life, after my biological children and The Wife. Like The Wife, The Courts lives on the same planet as me: down to earth.

We know how the land lies (and the people) and they make me wonder. They cause me wonder.